Through The Eyes Of A Wanderer
by DaemonCat
Summary: The early world of Tolkien, through the eyes of an Elf who saw it all. Guaranteed not a member of a high-sounding family, and without reams of ancestors.
1. Time To Move On

_Based around all of Tolkien's earlier works; the Silmarillion and such. Work in progress. Tolkien is not mine, neither are his brainchildren._

_-_

The young elf furtively glanced to right and left of him. The battle he was leaving was one he should never have fought in. All of his company save he and his present leader had been killed, and since Gwindor had been taken, plainly he was the only one left. Gwindor wouldn't survive. No one survived being taken by Morgoth. It just wasn't done. But back to the problem at hand. Where would he go now? Certainly not back to Nargothrond; the thought of telling all of those people the bad tidings was inconceivable. Not only that, he had been feeling restless for a while now anyway. He could go to Gondolin. Yes. That was just the place. He had wanted to see the 'Hidden Rock' for many years, and now he could. It wouldn't be easy; the Gondolindrim guarded their gates with jealous care, but he'd always enjoyed a challenge. Let them think what they liked at Nargothrond; he wasn't going to tell them he was alive. It would just go down as another sorrow, a whole host killed. He didn't call Nargothrond home, he called no place home. He was a wanderer, and he wasn't going to stop now. He enjoyed his life, and got to see the world. He'd always wanted to see the world, before those dratted mortals ruined it, which they inevitably would. So it was decided then: it was time to move on again.

That was me, on a typical day. When I got bored of seeing the same scenery, I simply moved away to where it was more interesting. I relished the freedom, the sights, the new people, which so many others envied. The day you see above, however, was far from typical. It was the most untypical day I had ever seen. It is not every day that you go and fight for the future of the world. Even less that you lose. We lost morale, the field, friends, our king, our dignity, sometimes even our lives. Even worse, Morgoth won. He didn't even fight, but he still won. Dark lords are often like that. They let their armies do the hard bits. And his armies drove us like cattle. It was shameful, and the worst of it? It was not the first, or last, of its kind, though it may have been the worst.

Gwindor, our captain, and a very fine fellow too, went against the king Orodreth and all common sense to get us to that battle. Not that I blame him, he was recovering still from the loss of Gelmir his brother from the last battle he had fought in. He tried to make us think he was over it, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Even I, who hadn't even fought in the Dagor Bragollach, could see that it'd affected him more than he made out. The truth was, he was still grieving, and wanted to avenge him. Poor Gwindor. Little did he know how big a part his loss was to make.

We were in the front line, raring to go and kill a few dozen Orcs, waiting for the infamous sons of Feanor to make their overdue appearance, when Morgoth loosed his first strike. One thing about Morgoth, I couldn't help but admire his military skill, despite the fierce hatred for him and the means with which he displayed that skill. The next few minutes were not going to contribute heavily to my admiration. The Orcs who were probably under the delusion of being in a position of authority brought out a blinded prisoner to try to provoke us. Gwindor, who had fought in more battles than I cared to imagine, guessed this, and warned our small company. There were only about fifty to a hundred of us, but we had been united in the face of war, and weren't going to forget it in a hurry. Every member of that courageous company saved my life at least once, and I daresay I did the same. "Friends," said Gwindor. "I'll wager anything you like that he's going to try to provoke us into fighting too early. Looks like a prisoner to me. Now, whoever he is; you may know him, don't move a muscle! The battle hangs from a slender thread…so whatever…you do – CHARGE!!!"

Later, when I had had time to meditate upon this bemusing speech, I pieced together what had really happened. Poor Gwindor had recognised the prisoner, and, unhappy chance! it had been none other than Gelmir. He had restrained himself, still talking to us, his voice strained, and watched in horror as first Gelmir's hands, then his feet, and finally his head were viciously slashed off, punctuated by the foul laughter and promises of Orcs. Furiously he leapt forward and commanded us to charge, though whether he had meant to say it out loud I do not know. All I know is, we all followed suit without hesitation, and it proved to be only the first stroke of ill-fate in a continuous rain of ill-fated strokes. The rest of our side couldn't exactly leave us there to hold them off alone, so they joined us. I was deeply touched through the general battle rage, and fought twice as hard. Gwindor shouldn't have commanded us. But what can I do now?

We could have won even then. The orcs were lessening, and we were fighting still, fuelled by our hatred of Morgoth and the vengeance of those struck by Morgoth; friends, brothers, parents, children, husbands, and, though few know it, even wives and daughters. Those who had told me (I was well known around those parts, and also it was well-known that I could keep a secret) mostly didn't come back, but I do not doubt that there were more. I've never mentioned this to anyone, so I'm not giving away names. It was confidential, after all.

I have seen many things, in my time, crossed the terrible Helcaraxe with Fingolfin, not that I knew him personally, watched open-mouthed as the Moon rose for the first time, though I was but a child, searched for Luthien in Doriath, though I only saw her once, a fleeting glimpse that will ever remain in my mind, but nothing was like the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Amid the ferocious flashes of silver blades, scything their deadly arcs all around, I saw Gwindor being taken; struggling uselessly against the iron grip of whatever creature was holding him. After that horrific sight, I knew that it was time for me to leave. I wish to make one thing clear though, I was not deserting. I was still young, for an Elf, and no one deserved to see the horrors my eyes had witnessed, so I left.

I was not deserting.

-

_More soon. Promise. _


	2. Spell Of Gondolin

_Spell Of Gondolin  
  
You know the drill, review if you feel the need.  
_ -  
I made my way leisurely to the place that was called Ondolinde by the High-Elves of old, which means Stone Song, and I realised that I would have to change my identity again. I have done this several times since I started my roving days, but I have never once forgotten who I really am; however I'm not going to enlighten you; all you need to know is that I changed my name to Ellenor, or Starfire, in your language. It had previously been Sea Song, Aelir. This was not my real name either. It would be easy enough to work out a life-story and a reason for being there, I've done that enough. So that was solved. Another problem presented itself to me in the weeks it took me to reach my destination. No one knew where the entrance to the city was! I had to put into practice a little method that I like to call shadowing. Find someone who is going to your favoured destination, and follow him a few days behind. Some people think that this is an inconvenient amount of time to wait before following, and it could take any length of time to find someone to shadow, but you must remember, a wanderer has all the time in the world to travel, he is not on a particular mission that must be completed as soon as possible, or an errand. He is his own master, and certainly Gondolin was a place that an Elf could wait for. Also, how was I supposed to know who was going to Gondolin? Well, since I hadn't been around this part of the lands around Beleriand, I could follow anyone who came my way, thus learning more about the outlying terrain. Two birds in one blow. I would have to follow more closely than I was accustomed to, though.  
It was a few days later when I saw the first travellers on the almost disused road. I was very lucky, because it was at that period of time when the Gondolindrim allowed folk in, on business, or if they had a legitimate reason. I had neither, but I could soon think one up. The travelling band were just passing through, and I had to be very careful not to follow them too far, that is out of the region that I knew Gondolin was in. This happened several times, but I still doggedly waited. The scenery was beautiful; rolling mountains, highland moors every here and there, and the colours seemed more real almost. The eating was good too. Plenty of small game, such as rabbits, other small rodents, birds, and lots of mountain herbs and vegetation to season them with. Wanderers can't be choosers, you see.  
My waiting paid off in the end, and a small party of merchants took me unwittingly to my destination. To avoid suspicion, I waited for a week in a makeshift camp an hours march from the gates. After I'd made sure of the precise location of the hidden city, of course. I'm not that stupid, after I don't know how many years wandering in strange places. I did get lost once, when the Noldor reached Aman for the first time. I wandered off, to explore, and got lost for three days. I can still remember the lecture I received from my parents. My first taste of the roving life. How I treasure that memory!  
I sauntered up to the hidden gate and knocked smartly. For the first time, I wondered if I should actually be doing this. I could easily go back to Nargothrond; they would probably have got the news by now. I could just tell them I got lost on the way home...?  
I mentally shook myself. No. I was going to Gondolin. I'd spent a month already trying to find the entrance, and I'd knocked on the door anyway. A stone panel slid out of place, fashioned so cunningly that it seemed as much a side of the mountain as the boulder I was sitting on. I almost leapt out of my skin.  
"Friend or foe?" came a harsh voice at my back. I was terrified and my wits deserted me completely.  
"Which would you prefer? I mean friend." The guard grinned at me. Obviously this had happened to other unsuspecting visitors, so he instead asked my business. Which, of course, I didn't have. So I did the only thing I could have done. I made something up.  
"I've come here to stay with a friend." I said confidently.  
"Which friend would this be?" asked the guard suspiciously.  
I swallowed, nervously. Luckily I remembered some of the Gondolindrim who'd fought alongside me in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and said the first one who came into my head.  
"My friend just happens to be Celequesse." I said, my voice almost haughty. "Bring him here if you don't believe me." My eyes shifted to the guard's expressionless face. "Do you?" The guard stared at me for a terribly long time, and I began to wish I had taken my own advice and gone back to Nargothrond. Then he let me through, and I breathed again. I decided to pay a visit to my friend Celequesse, the Silver Feather, to clear up any questions that may possibly be asked. I stepped into the bright city, and my mouth dropped open.  
It was a riot of colour, with tall-sculpted towers piercing the horizon like wolves' teeth, with tapestries hung on walls of stone, and a fountain in the square. Next to the fountain, amid the sound of tinkling water, stood the Tree. This was a seedling of Telperion itself, Nimloth, that was brought to the Walled City by Turgon, who, I remembered, still ran the city. Actually, he was High King of the Noldor since Fingon was lost in the battle. He was Turgon's brother, the eldest son of Fingolfin, the second son of Finwe. I vaguely wondered if he knew that he was the new High King. I mentally shook myself again. Of course he knew! There were Elves who had fought from here, and at least some of them had returned, I knew that for certain, so he would have been told. I then began to vaguely wonder how long Turgon would last. Not very long, judging by his predecessors.  
Finwe was slain outside his own house, by Morgoth, Fingolfin was killed in a duel, again, with Morgoth, and Fingon met his end in the form of a large axe wielded by Gothmog lord of Balrogs, employed, of course, by Morgoth. Recurring theme, maybe?  
My mind returned to the matters at hand. I had no idea where Celequesse actually lived. But there were plenty of Elves conversing in the square, so I selected a knowing looking group near the fountain and asked them.  
"Why do you want to know?" asked one of them. "I haven't seen you around here before. Have you just come in? How do you know him?"  
Yes, Elves love gossip. They also love to ask questions. But they rarely enjoy answering them. I am no exception.  
"Yes, as a matter of fact. He's a friend of mine. He saved my life in the battle, and I wanted to say thank you, only there wasn't enough time afterwards. You know how it is, he went home to Gondolin, and I went home to Nar—Menegroth. So where does he live?" Some of it was true. He had probably saved my life (you can never tell in battles. I always like to err on the side of caution), but that bit about after the battle was a complete fabrication, because I'd left halfway through. But they wouldn't know, would they? It wouldn't do them any harm.  
They did tell me, and I immediately set off in the general direction. I thanked my lucky stars once again that I have a natural sense of direction. I found his house without mishap, and knocked uncertainly on the door. When he answered it, finally, I had already debated with myself whether to just leave, but Gondolin had already woven her spell about me. I was seriously considering ending my wandering days for good.  
"Aelir?" he asked, in astonishment. "But all of the Nargothrond company were slain, everyone knows that!"  
I had just met with another problem.  
Stepping inside his house, I took a deep breath and prepared to tell Celequesse about my real life.  
"So call me Ellenor, please?" I ended, after a good while. Whatever you say about my life, it was never boring. "And I...left...in the middle of the action." I couldn't help justifying myself. "It wasn't deserting. I just couldn't cope anymore. There were all of the friends I'd made in Nargothrond, dying one by one, and when they took Gwindor...that was the last straw. At least some of your friends made it back, and you didn't have to tell the whole city that their husbands or sons or whatever were dead. At least not alone. You won't hold it against me, will you? And if you do, then at least don't tell anyone about me."  
Celequesse was silent. "And you want me to tell everyone that you're staying with me, and your name's Ellenor and you stayed in the battle till the end and fought with the Menegroth host. Well, you can forget about anything to do with the battle! But I'll agree with you on the rest. How about you really stay with me, and make it less confusing for both of us?" I was only too willing to comply.  
He turned around, as he was about to leave the room and leave me to my own devices. "Ae---Ellenor? Does anyone else know about you being a completely different person to whoever you say?"  
I shook my head. "Only you, me and the stars."  
And so began my new life in Gondolin.  
I don't know how long I spent there, but it was truly wonderful. I almost did give up the days of roaming under the sun, with no anchor to keep me in one place, to draw me back home at the end of each journey. There was, however, a small nagging thought at the back of my mind, that wouldn't ever leave me alone. It was always there, a gnawing little voice. It kept telling me to stop lying to myself about the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, that I had deserted. I tried telling it the horrors I had seen, that I'd had no choice, but it didn't listen, and only grew louder. Then it called me a coward, saying that I hadn't even gone to give the news to the people back in Nargothrond.  
What made it worse was that I knew every word was true.  
The years passed swiftly, and I really believed that this was my home now, forever. I decided that one day I would return to Nargothrond, maybe tell them who I really was, and finally that voice would stop. That's what I told myself, but I was really going to go because I wanted to honour my friends, the friends that I'd lost on the battlefield. I saw their faces in my mind; brave Ruthalion, swift- footed Celebrost and young Menelfea. But I have an unfortunate habit of leaving things until tomorrow.  
In the years that had passed, I had ventured out of the city's walls several times, and on one in late June, when I wandered further abroad than I was now accustomed, that I encountered none other than the legendary Turin! Rather, I saw him from a way off, but what a sight! It's not the kind of thing you'll ever forget.  
Silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the sky, with a great sword, that, if I didn't know better, I would have thought to be made of black metal, that had a mysterious, almost unearthly sheen, and I am not altogether sure whether there was not a sinister look about it. It was a disturbing sight, and Turin was evidently past himself with grief, though what of, I do not know and probably never shall. There were thick woodlands all around, but he was on the very edge, on a small hillock that came down on the wood side in a miniature precipice. He plainly did not care who heard his cries of anguish, and he then began to sing. It was a haunting tune, a song of pain beyond knowledge, and loneliness! ah such loneliness as he described brought tears to my eyes and I longed to offer him solace, but I couldn't bring myself to leave the cover of the woods. My despairing eyes had seen enough, and I slipped silently away.  
It was in these fruitful years of the city that Tuor arrived. He was a Man, but not a bad sort. He fell in love with Idril Celebrindal, and for a long time, they attempted to hide it, but we could all see it, as plain as the nose on his face. They had a son, Earendil, who was the first of the Peredhil, that is, the line of the Half-Elven. As soon as he could look after himself, they sailed away in search of the Straight Road, and no one saw them again, though it was always said afterwards that they found Tol Eressea, and the fate of Tuor was sundered from that of other men. I find it quite believable.  
Then the Enemy was heard to be moving, and his eye set on Gondolin. The guards began to let fewer and fewer people into the city, and I found the momentum I needed to finally go back to Nargothrond. The system of the guards was this; all of the men in the city would take turns, according to the phases of the moon. For instance, on the second quarter of each third month, it would be Angarel's turn to watch the gate. With a sharp eye and not too much bother I was able to find out Celequesse's watch. I forewarned him that I was to leave, and he agreed to let me out. My spirit was content; I was going to redeem my cowardice. All too soon the time came, and after a sad parting, I took as many supplies as I could carry, and set out on my way.  
"Farewell, dear friend," I called as I made my way out of the mountains. "I shan't forget the kindnesses you have done me."  
"Beware, for the Enemy is indeed on the road," he answered. "Keep your wits about you, and come to your destination safely."  
I never saw him again after that.  
-


End file.
